


Velleity

by SirJosephBanksFRS



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirJosephBanksFRS/pseuds/SirJosephBanksFRS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen struggles with conflicting imperatives and attachments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Velleity

Long before vespers, Stephen Maturin had walked from the Grapes in the Savoy to Saint Dominic’s Priory in east Soho to be confessed. He knelt motionless in the confessional, closing his eyes and waiting for the priest, the Prior of St. Dominic's, to finish the blessing to begin his confession. He crossed himself. His mouth was dry and he licked his lips and then wiped them before he spoke and frowned down at his trembling hand.

"Forgive me, Father for I have sinned, it has been ten months since my last confession. I have sinned against chastity, Father." Stephen said in Latin.

"By yourself or with others?"

"Both."

"Tell what happened with others first. Once or more than once?"

"More than once, Father."

"When was the last time?"

"Yesterday."

"With whom did you sin?" Stephen swallowed.

"With my particular friend."

“Was this the first time, my son?”

“No, Father.”

"When did this first happen?"

"About a year and a half ago, Father. But I have been confessed before to it, ten months ago, in Bombay. I have only just returned from being abroad on a man-of-war. That is why it has been so long since my last confession."

"What did your confessor in Bombay say?"

"He asked me to pray for God's guidance and I have nightly."

"Yet you have continued. How many times has it been?"

"Three acts yesterday and again early this morning. I should have said that first, but I was thinking of yesterday."

"You came to confession immediately?"

"Yes."

"But you did not desist?"

"No."

"Will you desist?"

"No." Stephen said, looking down in the darkness.

"Why?"

"I cannot. Truthfully, I cannot and will not." Stephen said and he sighed very quietly.

"Why is that so, my son?"

"I collect the answer is that I am despicably weak."

"I do not believe that." The Prior said. His tone was kind.

"I fear that at least for the moment, I..." Stephen trailed off. "Father, I am not completely well. You may recall that I had recently been interrogated by the French when last I saw you."

"I do."

"As I have told you before, I was and am very much attached to a young woman named Diana whom I have known for years now. I asked her to marry me whilst we were both in India and she said she would. It did not work out and I fear that I shall never see her again. This event has been a crushing blow, almost unbearable. Understandable on her part, in no way do I fault her, but I have been extremely low. The relations with my particular friend are the only joy left in my life. Not that I mean to say had things been different that I would desist in this sin -- not in any way should I give you to believe that because our relations are unto themselves. I know I commit a mortal sin with him. I fear that I have led him to sin. He says in jest that I seduced and corrupted him, but there is much truth in it. I did seduce and corrupt him and I have that on my conscience as well. He has told me he would never have committed acts of sodomy with anyone other than myself and it is unequivocally true."

"Has he been confessed?"

"He is a Protestant."

"Which acts have you done?"

" _Peccatum illud horribile inter Christianos non nominandum_." Stephen said. "The sin is entirely mine, Father."

"You said that your relations began a year and a half ago, but you have apparently abstained for many months, given you have not so acted until yesterday."

"I was seriously wounded in a duel seven months ago. My abstinence has not been of my own volition. Indeed, I have regretted it deeply."

"And your friend?"

"He desisted out of consideration for me, for my health. He is the most considerate of men." The priest was silent.

"You say that you sinned against chastity alone as well."

"Yes, Father."

"What do you mean?"

"I had impure thoughts and committed impure acts as well, beyond that which was necessary to reduce the vitiation of my humours." The priest sighed.

"How did this come to pass with your particular friend, Stephen?"

"I told you last we met what happened in Mahón. He saved my life in the most desperate of circumstances. The Blessed Mother herself told me that he would come for me and save me. He is my very dearest friend. Afterwards, his gaze never changed when he looked at me, no matter how wretched I was and that has cleaved me unto him. He is the only succor in my existence as it stands. I know I sin with my pride, my disobedience, my willfulness. I feel it very acutely. I was torn between coming immediately and confessing and not coming and accepting perdition, not because I believe sodomy unnatural and immoral, but because my weakness and disobedience is surely odious to God as I persist in actions that are prohibited and impermissible and yet, I am incapable of not persisting. The logic of the sinfulness of those specific actions as I see it is immaterial, for the failure is in my obedience and my submission to God. Yet the Dear knows I cannot conceive how I would go on, should I force myself to desist. I cannot imagine it. The breaking of our friendship entirely, which is surely what such a decision should entail, would be more than I could bear. Not because of him but because of me, because that is what it would take for me to desist. My melancholy is acute at the moment, despite all my attempts to ameliorate it with physic. I have lost that which meant more to me than virtually anything. I detest my own frailty and infirmity of sentiment in response to these events. I do not possess the strength nor the ability to throw away the only thing left to me that I care for at all on the face of the earth." Stephen said. He was silent for a moment. "Though my words, Father are not wholly candid. These relations began long before I arrived in India. They have nothing to do with my marital prospects. True, they are a consolation to me now but if the young lady and I were married, it would be neither here nor there with regard to this matter. My attachment to Jack is not subject to any external forces beyond the constraints of geography itself. I understand if you cannot give me absolution." Stephen said.

"Will you pray for God to remove these desires from you?"

"Father..." Stephen faltered. He was silent for several minutes. "Father, I cannot make that prayer, for surely God would know it is calumny on my part. I cannot in good conscience even pray for the volition to pray for the desire to be removed, for that would be a lie as well. I come to be meticulously honest and searching for your counsel. Again, I comprehend the limits of your ability to absolve me."

The priest was silent for what seemed to Stephen a very long time.

"I have known you many years now, Stephen. You are a devout communicant. Your Benedictine education shows plainly on you. I am very concerned for you in this moment, for your spiritual condition. I believe you are verging on despair. This concerns me very greatly, far more than any sin against chastity. That you may be resigned so easily to being denied absolution is most troubling."

"It is not easily; it is nothing of the sort." Stephen said, his despondency cutting through him like a knife.

"You verge on despair, Stephen. Despair is an unpardonable sin against the Holy Spirit." The Prior said.

"I understand." Stephen said, his gut twisting.

“My observation makes you more resigned and gives you more despair. Stephen, God does not wish for you to suffer this burden alone. Christ died on the cross for your sins. God's forgiveness is stronger than any sin. Listen well: your imputability in this matter with your particular friend is diminished. Do you understand? Given the degree of attachment between you and your particular friend, the inordinate degree of attachment, your imputability for these acts is reduced. Your sin is venial, not mortal. That is God's grace for you. You err exceedingly towards scruple. You must overcome this tendency; it is very dangerous. This scruple may lead to a complete loss of hope in you, especially in this matter, being driven away from the Church, from God's grace and His mercy. You appear dangerously close to an intransigent self-loathing that will close you off from everything; from God Himself. You have already called yourself despicable and weak. I should never say such a thing of you. You must overcome this scruple for it is leading you to despair and that despair is an unpardonable sin. God would hold me accountable if you should suffer that end because I fail to make it clear to you that you may still possess God's grace, though you sin this way thrice daily, every day. Surrender yourself to God's mercy and have faith. Accept yourself as you are, as the sinner that you are. Make the effort to be open to God's grace. Your inclination to these relations cannot and will not be overcome by your willpower, clearly. Only God's grace will affect a change in you and I charge you to trust in God to let you know when that time is right. God will reward you for that effort, rather than any particular result."

"Am I not guilty of impenitence and obstinance as well? Are those not unpardonable sins against the Holy Spirit? Do I not verge on heresy, Brendan, by telling you I find nothing unnatural or immoral about sodomy; that under the circumstances, it seems the most natural thing in the world to me, even laudable as an expression of deeply held love and esteem, not vicious in the least; that my engaging in it seems no more despicable than eating meat on a Friday -- impious, perhaps; shamelessly disobedient and self-indulgent, but not detestable, not loathsome?”

“Doctor, dear, you have come to confession and you have spoken the truth as you see it. You might have spoken to deceive me and told me you were praying to have these desires removed from you. God will not punish you for telling the truth. God will not punish you for coming to confession. Many have similar experiences and they lie by omission or outright deception. Many, probably the majority, simply cease to attend confession, believing erroneously that they cannot confess to a sin they enjoy or have no present intention of leaving off immediately. That is the fine point, to understand that you sin and to regret it enough to mention it but with velleity. That velleity though deficient to avoid an occasion of sin is the minimum condition of remorse. Your remorse is perhaps inchoate at this stage but Christ requires only that your desire to cease sinning and your faith in the power of God to help you to be only as great as a mustard seed, Stephen, to not be lost. Coming to confession and speaking of your sin is that mustard seed. All who come to Mass to receive the Eucharist are sinners. The pews are filled with sinners, we are a church of sinners, not saints. We all require the lamb of God to wash away the sins of the world, each and everyone of us. Your sin is no worse than any other’s, including my own. Few are brave enough to say the words you have said. As you well know, a man cannot be healed if he cannot honestly tell his physician what his condition consists in. The impenitent and obstinate do not come to confession. Should you wish to debate theology with me further?"

"No."

"Well, that is a relief, that your state of scruple is not so advanced that you argue more with me. I prefer that you limit your confession of these matters to me, if you please, in the interest of you not engaging in scruple. I know your fear is presumption and that is why you came to confess so soon. There is no presumption here. Do you understand? There is no presumption. You may go and be confessed anywhere you wish but I prefer that this aspect of our spiritual work not be undone by someone with the best of intentions who does not know you, your circumstances or your character. This spiritual ill is best treated by one physician. Do you agree?"

"Yes, Father."

"Stephen, lift up your heart. You ask for forgiveness, you are forgiven, that is the grace of God, that is all that is necessary. "Seek and ye shall find, knock and the door shall be opened unto you, ask and it shall be given." _Ego te absolvo_ \-- you are absolved. May the peace of God which passeth all understanding be with you and may you know the love of Jesus Christ which surpasseth knowledge. Grace is with you; God loves us, sinners all. I charge you to pray daily as Saint Augustine did, "God grant me chastity and continence, but not yet." Your piety need not exceed Augustine's. Now, my son, pray to the Blessed Mother that you might have charity and mercy towards yourself, for God charges you to love and forgive yourself first; for as you treat yourself, you will treat others. Will you do this?”

 "Yes, Father."

"Say an Act of Contrition with me now, _Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando_..." Stephen said it with him and the priest then formally absolved him and they sat there in silence. "Maturin?"

"Yes, Father dear?"

"I have a monograph in the library for you. I have been holding onto it for over a year now. The scolopacidae of County Cork by Brother O'Shea. He sent it to me for you." The Prior said, in English.

"Thank you, Brendan, that is most kind of you." They exited their respective sides of the confessional and Father Brendan Burke looked with concern at his old friend, whom he first met just after his own ordination and return from Rome to Dublin, before the Rising, for he had been in the United Irishmen with Stephen, back in those heady and then disastrous days. Later, he had been with Stephen at Mona’s deathbed the following year and they had kept up, on and off over the years until Stephen had run into him in London during the Peace of Amiens, as he had been sent to be the Prior of St. Dominic's. His family had produced several notable Dominican priests; Thomas Burke, the Bishop of Ossory having been his uncle.

"Might you come and have tea?" The priest said. "I want to hear of your travels."

"With all my heart, Brendan.” Stephen said and they walked to the library, speaking of snipes, godwits and sandpipers.


End file.
